6pm Manhattan.
The noisy, rancid, obnoxious stampede on the subway of office robots getting off work, the sour fags at the David Barton Astor Place front desk, the blaring 90s meth queen club music there, having to wait in the squalid foyer until 15 mins before the class to sign up for it, the haste and struggle for the good weights and a nice spot on the floor and then here comes the reward; 45 minutes of utter torture. Then the same, in reverse, to get home. How is it that nothing is pleasant anymore? Everything little fucking thing is a fucking competition in New York and without much to show for it.